


Three Times Enjolras Brought Grantaire Flowers, and Three Times Grantaire was Oblivious

by occasionally_lost



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Multi, Pining!Enjolras, barricade day drabble, but i mean it's not really a theme, enjolras tries to bring r flowers, oblivious!R, or delt with at all actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 23:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occasionally_lost/pseuds/occasionally_lost
Summary: "The first time Enjolras brought him flowers, he had just finished some posters for a rally. He assumed it was some twisted form of thanks. Since when did Apollo thank him? Since when did Apollo even look at him with something other than disgust, or worse, disappointment, in his eyes? However, it was just after finals were over, and his best guess was that Enjolras’ brain was too fried to see the nonsense in his actions. With that explanation and a bottle in his hand, he soon forgot about the flowers, if only to try to keep his fragile reality from falling apart."Enjolras is pining and Grantaire is oblivious.





	Three Times Enjolras Brought Grantaire Flowers, and Three Times Grantaire was Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello and welcome to my fic. i wrote this on barricade day '17 but didn't upload it until now bc procrastination. content warning for mentions of alcoholism? it isn't really discussed or dealt with at all but imma just put it put there.   
> hope you enjoy!

The first time Enjolras brought him flowers, he had just finished some posters for a rally. He assumed it was some twisted form of thanks. Since when did Apollo thank him? Since when did Apollo even  _ look _ at him with something other than disgust, or worse, disappointment, in his eyes? However, it was just after finals were over, and his best guess was that Enjolras’ brain was too fried to see the nonsense in his actions. With that explanation and a bottle in his hand, he soon forgot about the flowers, if only to try to keep his fragile reality from falling apart. 

The second time Enjolras brought him flowers, he answered the door in paint stained clothes, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and bloodshot eyes. His Apollo shoved the flowers into the drunkards hands and stuttered, as if upset, before turning red and storming of in anger. Grantaire closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe until his world had stopped spinning. He took a swig from the flask, pretending that the lump in his throat was the whiskey and not the fact that he’d disappointed their leader yet again. As if he wasn’t used to it by now. 

The third time he’d asked Grantaire to stay behind after a meeting, earning him all sorts of weird looks from their friends - worried from Jehan, meaningful from Combeferre and confused from Marius. He might not have a lot in common with the latter, but this they could agree on. Ready to get kicked out from les Amis de l'ABC, he had faced their leader. But Enjolras looked… Unsure. Taken aback at this unusual sight, Grantaire could do nothing but openly stare. He looked vulnerable, his honest eyes giving the artist a look he tucked away in his head, saving for when he would come home to a blank canvas and finally knowing what to paint. Realising they’d both been silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, Grantaire said whatever came to his mind.

   “Finally kicking me out, oh Fearless Leader? Have I made you uncomfortable enough yet, with the drunken ramblings I bring about? Or have I yet to show you how truly annoying I can be? Are you simply tired of the cynicism I keep for company? Do I have to remind you that mine also count as a “Voice of the people”, that yours is not the only opinion that-” At last, Enjolras came to his senses. 

   “Grantaire!” 

   The addressed man batted his eyelashes sarcastically - how he managed to do it, Enjolras might never understand. 

   “Yes, sweet Apollo?”

   “I just- I wanted to give you these.” Apollo extended his arm, presenting him a lovely bouquet of flowers. It was red and plain, yet artistically mixed with green leaves to give a soothing impression. Even his untrained eye could see it was made by someone who knew what they were doing. Storebought, then, and not very cheap. Had he been a better man, or maybe just less cynical, Grantaire would have thanked him and told him what he thought - that they were beautiful, and perhaps even asked him out for dinner in return. However, the man was tired, hungover, and convinced that no one could ever truly care for him, especially not his Apollo. Therefore, his answer did in no way reflect his feelings; as defense mechanism rooted too deep or purposefully, the man himself didn’t know. He raised his eyebrows.

   “Whence this sweet gesture, I ask? I thought casual displays of wealth like these were reserved for your friends, or say, people who could return them? Or am I naught but your latest project, a poor struggling artist needing saving by the great Apollo? Save it! I know what I am to you, and I’ve accepted it, so don’t do this to feel better about yourself! I may be but another of your faithful subjects, but at least I still have a scrap of self respect!” He was breathing hard, not realising he was angry until he was shouting. “And to think I thought you better than this.” Grantaire turned to leave, but was held back as Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder. 

   “No! I wouldn’t do that, that’s not what I- that’s not what I meant.” He looked as nervous as the artist had seen him, but yet somehow still as handsome as the marble faces at the Louvre, even as his cheeks was tinged with red. Grantaire’s heart stopped for a second. Enjolras dropped his head.

   “Look, I was just-” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend you, and I won’t do it again. You’ve made your point, it was unwelcome.” The older man hesitated, something flickering in his eyes. “Just take them this last time, will you?”

   Before Grantaire had had the chance to respond, he was alone in the attic of café Musain, clutching a delicate bouquet of red lilies. 

He made his way back to the apartment in a haze. He’d run out of vases by now, and improvised by putting the lilies in an empty beer bottle. It made a nice contrast, he thought, the beauty and purity of the flowers, and the bottle he’d found on the floor, left there after a night of one too many drinks. How well they represented the two of them. It was at last clear to him that they weren’t gifted to him out of spite, and though he did not know the reason behind them, Grantaire felt like he wanted, no  _ needed _ to give Enjolras something in return. Wanting wouldn’t be enough though. As a struggling alcoholic and artist, Grantaire knew he wouldn’t be able to afford an equally exquisite gift in return, flowers or not. Instead, he set to work painting the flowers that Enjolras had given him, one at a time on their own canvas. The first one was slightly wilted by then, but it did nothing if not adding to the aesthetic effect.

Some days later, it was the night of the first meeting since Grantaire’s and Enjolras’s awkward encounter, and for once Grantaire was early. Before anyone else arrived, he snuck up to the attic to hang up the canvases. He didn’t know why he bothered sneaking - it’s not like it could have been anyone but him. And yet he felt like this was better. After making sure they hung straight (he snorted to himself at the irony, than again for finding it funny) he left the meeting room as quietly as he had entered it and went back to the main room of the café to pour some whiskey in his coffee when he thought Valjean, the owner of café Musain, didn’t see.

The others started dropping in, and he talked to his drinking buddy and fellow boxer Bahorel as the time for the meeting to begin closed in on him. He drowned his coffee and pretended the knot in his stomach didn’t exist as Bahorel told him about a bar fight he’d witnessed (or, judging by the state of his knuckles, participated in).

When the two of them entered, they stopped in the doorway. Courfeyrac and Jehan were both doubled over with laughter, Cosette was whispering something to a confused looking Marius, and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta sat around their own table, looking as if the three of them shared a secret everyone else were too stupid to understand. Grantaire’s focus however, went straight to Enjolras (indeed, when did it not?). His shoulders were slumped, and he stood next to Combeferre, who had his arm around Enjolras in what seemed to be a comforting gesture as they viewed the artwork in front of them. He could barely hear Combeferre’s comforting words.

   “Don’t worry, Enj, he’ll get it soon.” 

What the poor artist didn’t know, was that the two friends were reading the titles of the paintings rather than contemplating his artistic skills. True to his feelings, Grantaire had named them all along the lines of “Um thanks dude but ??????”

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first uploaded fic,,, ever?  
> hope you liked it! if you read it feel free to leave comments, you don't even have to be nice i just thrive on attention  
> aight thanks xx


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